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The ocean never slept.
Its voice—ancient and restless—howled through the jagged cliffs that marked the edge of the Storm Expanse, a forgotten stretch of coast far south of the central sect regions in the Duskwatch Province, itself tucked along the edges of the sprawling Varellan Sub-Kingdom. This place held no name in official records. Yet every village elder and sect instructor warned disciples to never venture near it.
Ash had ignored them.
For days now, something had drawn him here. At first, it was just a whisper in his dreams—waves crashing in darkness, chains rattling beneath water, a throne of bone and coral staring back at a bleeding moon. Then came the pressure. Each night, a dull throb in his chest, each step closer to the cliff relieving it slightly—as if something deep beneath the waves recognized him.
Today, the pull was stronger than ever.
Ash stood at the edge of the cliff, wind tearing through his black hair, his outer robe snapping behind him. In his right hand, he clutched the scroll—a strange relic he'd discovered in the ruins beyond the eastern ridge. A shrine long forgotten by both locals and scholars, buried beneath root and stone. When he picked up the scroll, it didn't feel like finding treasure.
It felt like awakening something.
The parchment was old—so old it cracked when handled, and yet the wax seal remained intact. Not with a sect emblem or royal stamp, but something older. A sigil etched in dark lacquer, forming a symbol that shifted depending on how you looked at it: part claw, part spiral, part open eye.
Since the moment he touched it, Ash had changed.
He didn't know how, not fully. His dreams had become vivid. His senses sharper. Meditation became easier, but also more dangerous. He began hearing things during cultivation—low whispers, sometimes laughter. His own qi pulsed strangely during practice, especially when near water.
And the scroll would thrum softly, as though it had a heartbeat.
Ash closed his eyes and listened. Far below, the sea churned angrily, waves crashing like the lungs of some buried beast. Mist rolled up the cliff, brushing against his face.
He had come alone. No one knew he was here. Not even Instructor Maelin.
He exhaled slowly.
"This place," he murmured, "why does it feel like it knows me?"
"You ask the right question."
Ash spun, startled. A figure stood behind him.
The man wore a robe the color of storm clouds. His long hair was grey, not with age but with time itself, like moonlight had sunk into every strand. His face was calm—neither kind nor cruel. But his eyes...
They were deep. Deeper than oceans. And they watched Ash not like a stranger, but like someone reading a book he'd read many times before.
Ash took a step back. "Who are you?"
"A watcher," the man said simply. "Of things buried and broken."
"Were you following me?"
"No," he said. "You came to me."
Ash frowned. "This is a cliff."
The man smiled faintly. "So it is. And yet here you are."
He stepped forward, closer to the edge, his robe trailing softly behind him. Ash kept his distance.
The man gazed down at the raging sea. "Do you know what lies beneath these waters?"
"I've heard stories," Ash said carefully. "Old legends. Something was sealed here. Some... creature."
"Not a creature," the man said. "A man."
Ash swallowed. "Who?"
The wind seemed to pause.
"They once called him the Voidbound Saint," the man said. "Though no sainthood remained in him at the end."
Ash felt the scroll twitch faintly in his hand.
The man continued. "He was once a scholar. A prodigy. Like many of the greatest cultivators… he sought freedom. From pain. From weakness. From fate. But he didn't walk the heavenly path. He walked through it."
Ash tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
"He tore through the gates of orthodoxy. Consumed the forbidden. Made pacts with powers no realm dared name. Some call it the demon path, others the devil's root. But he saw it as truth."
The man paused, voice quiet.
"And the truth consumed him."
Ash shivered.
"They couldn't kill him," the man went on. "Not the sects. Not the empires. Not even the Heavens themselves. So they trapped him instead. Bound in seals woven by ancient formations... and drowned beneath this sea."
Ash looked down.
The waves seemed deeper now.
Not in color or height—but in weight.
"And the scroll?"
"It was part of the sealing ritual," the man said. "A keystone. A key."
Ash stared at the parchment in his hand. "Why me?"
The man met his eyes. "You were born under a fractured star. You lost your family in the year of red frost. You've been searching for answers your entire life—about the world, about yourself. Fate doesn't choose idly."
Ash said nothing.
"You carry rage," the man said softly. "It smolders behind your silence."
Ash's jaw clenched.
"But rage is not evil," the man continued. "It's only a fire. What you burn is what matters."
The wind surged again, and down below, the waves clashed so hard the sound echoed like distant thunder.
Ash turned toward the sea, suddenly dizzy. His legs felt numb. His eyes burned.
He could see something in the water now—just for a moment.
Not a shape. Not a person.
A presence.
Massive. Sleeping. Watching.
"I don't want this," Ash said quietly.
"No one ever does," the man replied. "Not at first."
Ash turned back—but the man was gone.
No sound. No flash. Not even a footprint in the cliffside dirt.
Only mist.
The sea roared again, as if laughing.
Ash dropped to one knee, gripping the scroll tightly. His pulse raced. His breath caught.
He remembered fire.
He remembered screams.
He remembered his mother's last words.
"Live, Ash. Even if the world burns, you must live."
And now... the sea whispered a new promise.
"We remember. Come deeper."
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